


Toss A Coin to Your Vault Hunter

by MsThunderFrost



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Borderlands fusion, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Vault Hunter Jaskier | Dandelion, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25474213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Jaskier had had one dream, ever since he was a little boy. To prove that the Vault was real.That was, of course, before he realized he could barely fire a gun without getting knocked on his ass from the recoil.Now, he's a washed-up, wannabe Vault Hunter, stranded in the middle of nowhere with limited ammo, no cash, and a handful of jobs that'rewayabove his paygrade. But hedoeshave the bloodthirsty CEO of Hyperion--The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia--trying to worm his way back into his pants. And that's a good thing... right?...Right.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	Toss A Coin to Your Vault Hunter

“Didn’t think ya’d survive that one, kiddo.” Jaskier stares ahead, his expression flat. He knows that he wasn’t meant to survive that fucking circle jerk back there－but he needs the cash, and dead men don’t get paid. 

[In fact, they get charged a fucking  _ tax _ to have one of Hyperion’s fancy-shmancey machines piece them back together. As if Hyperion didn’t already have more money than  _ god _ , selling their weapons for more cash than Jaskier had seen in his entire life.]

“Take yer money and scram. The people don’t pay ta see ya win.” The payout is immense, near $10K. With that kinda cash, he can purchase enough insta-health vials that he won’t immediately black out the second his shield is depleted...

God, isn’t that all  _ kinds _ of pathetic? Getting excited over fucking  _ minor insta-health vials _ . What even  _ is _ his life?

“Fuck you.” He takes the money. He’d be a fool not to. The  _ last _ time he’d walked out of the Circle of Slaughter, he’d been turned to goo by a fucking Badass Spitter Skag. He’s not in the mood for a repeat performance. 

He does his best not to get blood on the bills as he counts his winnings, triple-checking to ensure the slimy bastard didn’t pull a fast one on him. When he’s sure that it’s all there, he makes his way over to the nearby vending machines to inspect their wares. There’re a few new guns, including a powerful submachine gun with an incendiary effect. But the accuracy is, frankly,  _ shit _ －and for  _ that _ price, it’s hardly worth it. Besides, even if he sold his entire inventory, he’d never be able to afford it.

So he prioritizes healing. The little vials of mysterious red liquid don’t take away the tang of copper that lingers in the back of his mouth from the tooth he’d chipped when one of the alpha skags had bodyslammed him into the wall, but he starts to feel less like he’s about to keel over from bloodloss, so he considers that a win. He doesn’t know what Chireadan puts in the insta-heal vials (and, quite honestly, he doesn’t think he  _ wants _ to know) and he doesn’t care. It’s cheaper－most of the time, anyway－than the death tax, albeit much less effective. But that’s the price that you pay, when you’re a would-be Vault Hunter that can’t even fire a shotgun without getting blown to kingdom come by the fucking recoil. 

He’s a fucking siren (which had earned him quite a few peculiar stares in his trekk across the badlands－yes, he understands that male sirens aren’t really a  _ thing _ , but he also knows he doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone and anyone that doubts the legitimacy of his power because of his gender isn’t worth his time, anyhow). He’s not built to take a hundred shots to the abdomen and keep on trucking. He’s so petite a fucking  _ rakk _ almost flew off with him in Skag Gully, for fuck’s sake. He’s... not quite sure what kind of life he expected for himself, but almost being torn to shreds on the daily was certainly not it. But, as luck would have it, not only did constantly dying leave him in want of supplies－it  _ also _ made it virtually impossible for him to return home.

He has access to the Catch-A-Ride, and can leave the badlands if he so chooses. He’s been to the Dahl Headlands once or twice, and had briefly set foot in New Haven before... before Geralt had destroyed it. The leader there, a young woman by the name of Renfri, hadn’t liked Jaskier much. To be fair, most didn’t, after they learned of his association with Geralt. 

[Though, is it even  _ really _ considered ‘associating’ when you fuck  _ once _ ( _ maybe _ twice), only to be cruelly cast aside when the opportunity presented itself to make a particularly advantageous merger (read: to fuck the insanely beautiful CEO of Maliwan). Jaskier is definitely not jealous. He’s not. Fuck, if it were him, he’d probably tap that, too.]

[...Except, y’know... probably not. ‘Cause, despite the evidence to the contrary, he does have  _ some _ standards. And he’s already met his quota for sleeping with bloodthirsty, mildly-psychopathic CEOs this year. What a shame.]

“Greetings traveler!” Jaskier flinches, nearly tossing his ECHO device clear across the cave when Clap-Trap’s too cheery voice echoes out, “There are new missions available at the Opportunity bounty board－,”

“Yeah,  _ that _ ain’t happening.” He’s been to Opportunity, too. The architecture is absolutely breathtaking, and, just like everything else owned by Hyperion, a single  _ column _ is worth more money than Jaskier’s seen in his entire life. He’d only been allowed entry because he’d been the latest beauty desperate to bounce on the CEO’s cock－

Geralt’s PA had made it quite clear that his  _ kind _ would not be welcome there, otherwise. 

It wasn’t because he was a siren, or a Vault Hunter, or an off-worlder... It was because he was  _ poor _ . And if Jaskier had learned anything in his two and a half years on Pandora, it was that folks rarely  _ choose _ to be poor. If you’re meant to survive the skags, and the rakks, and the spiderants, and the fucking  _ scythids _ , you need cash. And you don’t get cash if you aren’t willing to risk your own well-being to help others. And even then... how much can he honestly expect Chiredan to pay him, when he’s been stranded in the middle of a ghost town for  _ months _ , with nary a paying customer in sight? The bandits are more likely to rob him blind, and shove a shiv between his ribs, than pay for his services... 

So yeah, he’s dirt poor. And he knows full-well that he doesn’t have to be. The folks out in Opportunity have money to burn, and unlike here in Fyrestone, where the fucking sleeze who ran the Circle of Slaughter seemed to think watching him be swarmed by man-eating skags was worth  _ less than $10k _ ... the reward is almost always worth the effort. Just one－ _ one _ －of those missions could pay for a proper shield, so he’s not  _ dying _ all the damn time－

[And isn’t it just a special kind of hell that  _ every damn time he dies _ , the nearest New-U station reminds him, cheerful as ever, that he’s not  _ really _ dead. The only one who can  _ really _ kill him is Geralt.]

[Not that, y’know, he plans on seeing Geralt anytime soon. ‘Cause he kinda told Geralt exactly where he could shove it, the last time they’d spoken.]

He drives the Outrunner back to Fyrestone, checks the bounty board for any new jobs (despite the fact that he’s not surprised there aren’t any, he can’t quite hide his disappointment－if things continue on this way, he won’t have a choice but to start making his way toward the Rust Commons and hope for the best), and ducks into the ramshackle building where Chireadan is doing...  _ something _ to one of the bandits that’d wandered too close to town. Jaskier doesn’t really want to spend too much time contemplating  _ what _ exactly is happening, so he reaches into his backpack and pulls out what little remains from his payout and passes it along. The elf whistles, his lips curling back into a pleased grin behind his white surgical mask.

“That’s quite a haul.” He says, tucking the cash away into the pocket of his trousers. Then, “You look like shit. And you’re tracking blood all over my foyer.” Jaskier raises a brow－since when was a six-by-six room, with a giant hole in the wall for a door, considered a  _ foyer _ ? “Go upstairs and get yourself cleaned up.”

“Fuck you,” he says again, this time without malice. Chireadan may be a bit odd, but Jaskier knows he means well. And, honestly, he  _ is _ tracking blood absolutely everywhere. Nasty.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s standing in the shower in full-armor, up to his shins in pinkish-red water and trying to figure out how long the drain’s been clogged－or, better yet, when Chireadan was planning on  _ telling _ him that the drain was clogged－when the elf wanders into the bathroom without so much as a knock. It doesn’t bother Jaskier. Chireadan’s home is quite small, as are all of the homes in Fyrestone. There is no such thing as privacy between them. And besides, Chireadan has healed him enough times before that he no longer has anything to hide. 

“So, I was thinking...” the elf makes a face at the discolored bathwater. “It’s, uh... It’s probably for the best that you don’t stay in Fyrestone anymore.” He says.

Jaskier drops the showerhead, spraying murky water  _ all over _ the bathroom. But he can’t bring himself to care, because－”I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?”

“Look, I know that this probably seems real shitty, now that you’re paid up through the end of the month and all, but...” he fidgets uncomfortably, before producing an extremely bulky parcel from seemingly out of thin air. “You need to leave. 

He’s… not certain what he’s expecting. It’s clear that Chireadan’s already opened the parcel, which is mildly annoying, but fair, considering there’s no return address and the odds of the box containing a live grenade are uncomfortably high. Water continues to spray all over the bathroom as he tears the packaging open to reveal… a shield. A brand-new shield, stronger than anything he could buy in Fyrestone  _ or _ the Headlands, with a garishly yellow  _ H _ emblazoned on the front. That goddamned  _ H _ is more damning than any return address could ever be. How the hell Geralt had managed to find him, out in the middle of nowhere, is anyone’s guess. But he did, and he’d sent him a  _ motherfucking shield _ .

It’s a  _ nice _ shield, too. He shouldn’t be able to use something so powerful at his power-level, but fuck… Geralt, as per usual, has thought of everything. Tech like this is worth a small fortune. And Jaskier… well, as appealing as it would be to have a little bit of pocket money for the first time in  _ forever _ , he’s gonna have to burn it. He doesn’t want Geralt’s  _ hand-outs _ . Even if it is a  _ very nice _ hand-out. 

“You don’t honestly think that he’ll come  _ here _ , right?” Jaskier asks. ‘Cause the idea of Geralt coming all the way out  _ here _ is kind of… well, insane. He has far better things to do than bother the poor folks of Fyrestone. 

“You’ve seen the kind of damage that Geralt can cause.” Chireadan says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take that kind of risk. You saw what he did in New Haven. He’ll raze the entire town to the ground and… I hate to say it, but you’re not worth it.”

“Well, fuck. How do you  _ really _ feel about it, Chireadan?” Jaskier huffs, splashing him with murky water.

“I mean… I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… we both know that you’ve hit a dead end here in Fyrestone. That job at the Circle of Slaughter was the last big payout in the area. The best you can hope for now is to loot a couple of bucks off some bandit corpses, and－,”

Jaskier gags, “I don’t like blood.”

“You don’t like blood.” Chireadan says at the same time. Then, he rolls his eyes, “Maybe you should, uh…  _ turn off the water _ . ‘Cause you’re kinda about to flood the bathroom. And we’re in the middle of the desert. There’s like… a  _ drought _ .” Jaskier blinks, staring at him blankly.

“A drought is a prolonged period of abnormally low rainfall. I’ve been on Pandora for  _ years _ , and have never  _ once _ seen it rain.” Jaskier says. “And yet, there seems to be no shortage of water. It’s just… not  _ drinkable _ .”

“Jaskier.” 

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitches, “...You’re going to keep my money, aren’t you?”

Chireadan shifts a little. His foot slips on a puddle of murky water and he almost falls flat on his ass. “I, uh… already spent it.”

It’s been… fifteen minutes. Less than. How the hell had he spent several thousand dollars already? Well… he supposes that it doesn’t really matter. If he did legitimately spend it all already, he’d of screwed himself over. “ _ Fuck you _ .” He says, and actually means it this time.

He finishes his make-shift shower, because if he’s going to be forced out of his own home, he’s going to milk his last few moments for everything their worth. He kind of wants to rob the vending machine downstairs, but he’s better than that－

[It totally has nothing to do with the fact that there’s nothing worth stealing in the damn machine anyway.]

He doesn’t say goodbye. Honestly, he doesn’t really want to. He grabs the few items that he’d brought with him to Pandora, along with the meager selection of guns he’d accumulated from the various jobs he’d actually been able to perform. After a moment or so of consideration, he decides to take the shield, too. He might be able to sell it in the Headlands, where nobody knew that is was a personal delivery from the CEO of Hyperion himself. It only takes a couple of minutes to load everything into the back of his Outrunner. Chireadan sees him off－or, more likely, follows him out to make sure he doesn’t do too much damage on his way out－and he flips him the bird as he jerks the wheel around, causing the wheels to kick up a storm of dust and dirt. 

Fuck Chireadan. Fuck the badlands. Fuck Hyperion. And  _ fuck _ Geralt.

What the  _ fuck _ is he supposed to do now?


End file.
